For about seven years now, I have lived with a dirty secret. When it first came to my attention aged 17, I kept it to myself, letting it rot inside me and making me feel utterly freakish and disgusting.

Yesterday I made the exciting and slightly terrifying decision to sign up for National Novel Writing Month (“NaNoWriMo” for short – ‘cos even writers love abbreviations…). I can do it, for the good of the cause, i.e. actually finishing a bloomin’ story for the first time in my life.

That’s the paradox of chronic pain. Stress and tension makes the pain worse. But pain makes you stressed and tense! In the words of the love of my life, Ron Weasley: ‘Kill us faster? Oh, NOW I can relax!’

More often than not, we chronic pain warriors have another huge fight on our hands: getting the right treatment. It’s a long old slog. Like Frodo on his perilous quest, the path is twisted and arduous, and you’ve usually got one dim-witted friend dragging you back pining about potatoes, a slimy little creature intermittently spitting venom at you, and a whole host of characters to meet before you get one treatment to cure them all.

All my life, I have never feared being creative. As a woman and now as a resigned member of the disabled community, I am passionate about rights, and standing up for those to weak to fight for them. Sadly, in recent years I have joined their number - after so many months of fighting just to make it through a day without contorting into the foetal position, I have become too tired to feel in any way effective.